


Mafiosos (Oneshot?)

by Gdamnbluepool



Category: Bluepool
Genre: Blue Deadpool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7849807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gdamnbluepool/pseuds/Gdamnbluepool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gather 'round, children.  I'm going to tell you the tale of how I became a mob boss</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mafiosos (Oneshot?)

**Author's Note:**

> Random Facebook quiz did a thing that made me a mob boss and I decided to flesh it out and stuffs. Etc etc enjoy reading

The man gasps as he suddenly comes back into consciousness. Pain shoots through his head as he looks around, trying to see through the brown cloth sack that covers his head. He grimaces as tries to move his body, only to find his limbs to all be tied to whatever chair he was sitting in. He growls as he struggles to get free of his bonds, but whoever had tied his ropes knew what they were doing. He was effectively trapped and bound. Whoever did this to him was going to pay and pay dearly. 

“Well now! It looks like the guest of honor is finally awake! I’m glad to see that they didn’t accidentally kill you. I wanted you to be able to at least meet the crew who is going to be taking over your little operation. And such a loverly operation it is. I mean, you have your fingers in all sorts of business ventures within this city. I can’t wait to get to know every little bit of what you had,” an annoyingly familiar voice declares from somewhere outside the sack. 

“I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you and everyone you love are fucking dead! You hear me?! Fucking dead!” the sack covered man declares. “Oh Sal Sal Sal, you are confused, aren’t you? Here, let me help you with that,” the voice says. In the next instant, the sack is pulled off of his head and he is greeted to the sight of a blue and black masked face with expressionless white eyes, but a broad smile pressing against the front of the cloth covering. Sal’s blood runs cold as he realizes who exactly that mask belonged to. 

“Bluepool,” he whispers softly. “Hiya Sally Chutney! I’m glad to see that you remember me,” the masked mercenary says with a chuckle. He stands up and stretches out his body, letting Sal get a good look around at the area he was in. They had brought him to his favorite office. The one that had the panoramic view of the city. High up on one of the skyscrapers so he could gaze out at the glowing cityscape. He always loved this view. It brought him peace at times. But now, all he could think of was how angry he was. 

“Wonderful digs ya got here, Sal-ty. I’m going to enjoy this place a lot,” Bluepool says as he moves back and goes to sit behind Sal’s favorite black stained red oak and black marble desk, putting his booted feet up and crossing his arms behind his head. “What the fuck, Bluepool?!” the mobster snarls as he strains against his bonds. “Ya see, Sal pal, recently, you did some business that really rubbed me the wrong way. I mean so very bad. Dope in the orphanage? For shame for shame. So I came here to rectify that and repurpose your operation to be used for the better good. So I gathered up me posse and took care of a few of your lieutenants before coming to get you,” the loudmouth explains.

“Posse?” Sal wonders aloud, looking around again and noticing that there were others around the large office, more or less sitting in the shadows. The light coming down from above him made it harder for him to focus on the shadow covered figures. “Yes, my pals! My friends! Mi compadres! Well some of them. These are the ones that got the lucky lots. There are others, but they are busy doing other things. But these luckies here are going to be the head honchos in this organization! Let me introduce you!” Bluepool declares as he hits a button to turn on one of the other lights.

A section of the room lights up to reveal a petite woman in a black and red skull dress that goes down to her knees sitting ontop of a massive black skull chair that had been given to Sal as a joke present by one of the other dons. Beneath the dress she wore black leggings with white pistols on the sides, black chucks with red skulls on the outsides of the ankles to complete the outfit. Her lips are a brilliant crimson and her raven black hair falls straight, stopping at her shoulder tops. Currently, her brilliant amber eyes are focused on the phone in her hand. Sal also takes note of her black painted nail, peculiar tattoos, silver rings upon her fingers, and obsidian bangles around her left wrist. 

“This is Amelia Wilson. She is going to be my advisor. Hell, she has been my voice of reason more times than I can count. Level headed and a straight shooter, like most elves,” the mercenary says with a grin. The woman looks up at the mention of her name. Her hair shifts back and reveals one delicately pointed ear from beneath the raven locks. “Expert archer. I’ve seen her drop a man at three hundred paces with that bow of hers. Truly an amazing ally,” the merc continues. Her tanned skin darkens slightly at his comment as she looks away from him and back to the screen of her phone. 

“Next up, we have a man well known within both our circles. The heavy hitter of my team. The thunder from down under! Everyone knows you gotta respect ‘im! Victor Wang!” Bluepool declares as he turns on another light. Standing in front of a golden oriental style dragon, Sal’s eyes come to rest on the muscular back of one of the more respected hitmen in the game. Wang had a martial artist’s build that went well with his mahogany colored skin. As is his preferred method of dress, he stands in the office without a shirt on, only a gold and black bandoleer crossing over his chest that match the vambraces on his forearms. 

Victor turns around and shows off the large gold dragon medallion sitting in the middle of a black sash around his waist, holding up the golden martial arts pants with black dragons flying up the sides. He flashes Sal a massive grin and runs a quick hand over the strip of hair that rests on the very top of his head. “Thanks again for having such strong guards here, Sal. I really enjoyed the warm up on my way here,” Wang says as he leans slightly against the massive golden dragon statue. The mobster frowns as he feels a cold sweat go down his back. How many had they killed before they reached him? How many old friends had been lost to these maniacs? 

“Moving on! As you know, Salty Sal, a business has two faces. Its public one and it more discreet one. We’ll get to the public side in a minute, but for right now, let’s start with discreet. The person I appointed here is an old rival of mine, but she is good at what she does and she has her own organization, the German Bondage Militia. Introducing the recently promoted, Laaaaady Danchoooooou!” The light over a white leather sectional comes on to reveal a woman sitting with her legs daintily crossed. Sal’s eyes first start at her head and face. A black fedora rests upon the top of her head. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail that drapes over her left shoulder. A slight smile rests on her crimson lips, but there was a hidden venom on that expression. He could see it in her steel blue eyes. This woman was dangerous. He had heard stories about her Militia, story that made him often clench his butt cheeks.

His eyes continue down to see a button up white shirt with short frilled sleeves hides the pale skin of her shoulders and upper chest. A gleaming silver bell is nestled beautifully upon the center of her collarbone. The rest of her torso is covered by a black dress ending in white lace. Over the black dress, several leather straps crisscross over her chest. Sal knew not their purpose, but his mind briefly goes back to the stories and his lower half tightens. Mid-calf black riding boots cover her feet and her black leather gloved hands slowly spin a wicked looking hunting knife around between her fingers as she watches him. 

The elevator dings and a man wearing a beige looking military dress uniform, wearing a black gimp mask, strides out with two glasses of something bubbly balanced on a silver platter. The man marches dutifully to Lady Danchou and kneels, offering her the platter. Without even taking her eyes off of Sal, she takes one of the glasses and raises it to her lips, sipping the beverage slightly before dismissing the man. The gimp stands and snaps his heels together at attention before moving across the room to a still darkened area of the room. He delivers his beverage to whoever sits in the shadows before marching back to the elevator. 

“Tis ok, Danchou. It isn’t like any of the rest of us were thirsty,” Bluepool mutters. Danchou shrugs her shoulders with a smirk, but says nothing in return. “Bah, whatever. I’ll get something later. Moving on again. Where were we? Ah yes! The public side of things. Where the Left Hand is ready to gut you while you are eating dinner with your loved ones, probably after torturing the bejeezus out of you no doubt. The Right will be there to deal with you if you step into our public places and want to square up in a face to face type deal. For that reason, I have placed Dax ‘The Ax’ Chandrila in the coveted Right Hand position.”

Another light comes on to reveal a man in a red suit standing in front of Sal’s alcohol cabinet. The captured gangster narrows his eyes at the bottle in the man’s hands. It was Sal’s bottle of Macallan 64. “Hey punk! Put that down! You don’t know-“ Sal begins objecting before being stopped by a glare from Dax’s pupiless white eyes. The man then slowly turns around and pours himself a glass. Sal could see that he had a professional looking haircut. All the edges were neatly lined up and even. His white eyes are a sharp contrast to the caramel colored skin of his face. A tidy mustache and goatee grace his chin, his lips slightly turned up in a patronizing grin. 

The buttons of his crimson red suit jacket are open, revealing the dark blue shirt and tie beneath. A Bluepool Corps emblem rests on the left breast pocket. Blue suit pants with a red belt and red sneakers complete the outfit of the new Right Hand. Dax takes a sip of the drink he had made himself and chuckles. “I must say, Sal, you have an excellent taste in fine Scotch’s. I’ll be sure not to waste a drop,” he says, raising his glass in a toast to the bound gangster. He then turns his attention to Bluepool. “The drink selection here is topnotch. We shouldn’t have any trouble in being able to woo potential business partners with this kind of set up. None at all,” Dax adds. 

“Sweetness! That’s what I love to hear! See what I mean, Salwich? Already thinking ahead,” the masked mercenary exclaims as he plops heavily down onto the gangster’s lap. Sal grunts as the pistol grip and gun belt dig uncomfortably into his stomach. The merc smelled of blood and gunsmoke. A chill runs down the prisoner’s spine. How many bodies…? “Remember Benny? Your bodyguard? And half brother from your dad’s second marriage?” Bluepool asks, pulling Sal from his thoughts. The gangster nods slightly, his heart already racing at what the news could be. “Well just to let you know, I didn’t kill him,” the merc continues. Sal sags slightly in relief. Benny was a good kid. Maybe now he could get out and- “But my bodyguard did! Introducing, Chance ‘The Ruthless’ Bingham!”

Another light comes on and shows a man leaning over a collection of old vinyl records. “Trash.” Crash. “Trash.” Shatter. “Trash.” Smash. “Ooh! This one I could use.” The man sets the record on top of a pile before turning around, noticing that the light was on him. His neck length light brown hair sprouts out from beneath his purple, white, and green beanie. His unkempt sideburns flow down into a maintained beard. A long sleeved button up olive drab shirt covers his chest and over it he wears a solid purple tactical style vest. A Bluepool Corps pendant hangs from a silver chain around his neck at about the middle of his chest. Purple fingerless gloves with carbon fiber knuckles protect the hands that were currently holding an old Frank Sinatra record. 

Solid purple were the thigh holsters and tactical belt that he wears. Sal could catch the sight of a pair of semiautomatic pistols within the thigh rigs. His pants match his shirt and they were tucked into Vietnam jungle style combat boots that were green aside from the toe and side panels which were a custom deep purple. Chance smirks at the hostage and lightly flexes the record as he sees the hate in the other man’s eyes. “The little pussy begged for his life, ya know? All battered and bruised up, he begged to join us. So I asked him who he main’d. He was confused. I asked him if he even multishined. He looked so lost, right before I gave him the happy feet,” the bruiser explains, drawing a few chuckles from others. “That ain’t no Falco,” Wang adds. “Wombo Combo,” Dax finishes. 

“Oh those guys and their wordplay. Such a charming bunch, and deadly too. That’s why I picked ‘em! But I digress. Last but not least, say Sal-utations to the one who will be keeping the peace. I introduce to you, Trinity O’Sullivan!” Bluepool declares with a grand wave of his hand. The light over the final person comes on, revealing a woman with brilliant crimson hair. She currently sits slightly curled up on the black leather sofa Sal had bought when he first entered the business. Her flowing locks had only been partially tamed via straightening, but looked as though the wind had blown through them, putting them in slight disarray. Her hazel eyes are currently intently focused upon the book she had in one of her hands while the other is idly wrapped around the neck of the champagne glass that had been brought up earlier.

In terms of dress, she looks far out of place amongst the others who had arrived with the blue mercenary. A black serpent earring entwines itself around her left earlobe and a sparkly metallic purple octopus splays its tentacles out around her right ear. The left ear also sports three rainbow stud earrings along the upper helix. The rims of her glasses were a silvery metal shaped to look like entwined vines. Around her neck is a simple purple ribbon that holds a small black foxhead pendant and a dark glass vial. Further down, Sal’s eyes are nearly blinded by the brilliant tye dye T-shirt she is currently wearing. Her wrists each hold metal bangles, one silver, one gold, and one copper. There is something etched into the surface of each, but it is too minute for Sal to see. Her outfit is completed by slightly faded blue jeans that have been repaired a few times with metal wire. She is without shoes.

“Of course,” Sal says with a chuckle, “A fucking hippie is going to keep peace across the territories. You’re a fucking idiot, Bluefool.” The book suddenly slams shut and Sal feels every inch of skin on his body crawl as an unseen force moves across him. He looks at the red haired woman and makes note of just how brilliant and green her eyes had suddenly become. “Oi oi! Tori! None of that! None of that. We still need him alive,” Bluepool says as he gets off of Sal’s lap, holding his hands up as if trying to calm a trio of raptors. Trinity huffs before taking a drink from her glass and resumes reading her book. 

“Whew, that was close. Geeze louise, Carlos Saltana. I mean if you really wanted to die, there are far less painful ways to go about it than riling up a Faerie of the Unseelie Court. But hey, you can figure that out after your usefulness ends. Okay? Okay, I’m glad we are in agreement,” Bluepool says as he tousles the mobster’s hair and walks back over to the desk. “Whaddya need me for?” Sal growls after tugging at his restraints again. “Oh, well that’s simple. Need all your passwords and whatnot. I mean, we could prolly hack the system, but that is nowhere near as fun,” Bluepool replies as he plops down behind the desk, putting his feet up again. “Danchou? Be a dear and bring in that group, what do you call em? The bulls?”

The lithe leader of the GBM grins as she pulls a cowbell out from behind one of the pillows and rings it twice. After a few moments, in walks a pair of figures whose muscles were barely contained by their beige uniforms. They both wear a bull head mask over their heads, but what was in their hands sent shivers down Sal’s spine. “Sometimes we have to go in to get what we want out. Alright, you studly Bulls. He’s all yours,” the blue clothed mercenary says as he crosses his arms behind his head. Sal begins ranting and raving as the massive beings easily lift him up and carry him out. “Let’s have some music and a toast! Hurrah for us!” Bluepool declares as he throws his hands up in celebration.


End file.
